Hush
by imgonnaleaveyou
Summary: Blaine's reading in an empty library when vaguely familiar Sam arrives, looking to confirm a self-suspicion. Mature content.


The spacious and stately Dalton library was silent, cavernous in its near-emptiness. Shadows fell in lonesome slants across the flooring, gleaming oak towers heavily laden with volumes and volumes of knowledge, of romance and adventure and wonder Blaine had yet to discover. He had deliberately selected a table out of clear view of the librarian's station, and he had been reading so intently for so long there near a window, hunched over an ancient copy of Wuthering Heights, that the motion-activated fluorescent strip overhead had gone dark, leaving him with just the mottled multicolored glow streaming through stained glass from the overcast winter day outdoors.

On the outer periphery of his consciousness, he became vaguely aware of conversation taking place across the library. He could hear Harriet's muffled voice, and the accompaniment of another unfamiliar timbre told him she wasn't on the phone. The diluted sound was not enough to pull him from the clutches of the story, and neither were the quiet footfalls that followed, but Blaine was forced to drag himself away from the Yorkshire manor on the moors and back into the here and now when an old floorboard just five feet from his table creaked. The light overhead flickered, making a halfhearted attempt to come back on, but went out without doing so.

Blaine knew the boy's face from somewhere. A stereotypically pretty blond, rosy-cheeked still from the cold and full-lipped, he was someone Blaine had seen before, but it took him a moment to remember where. Even when he had matched this face with one he'd seen in competitions before, with one he had seen in club snapshots from Kurt's old life and old school, Blaine could not fathom why this other boy would be standing before him now.

"Sam?" He spoke all of his curiosity in a low query, voice barely lifting above a whisper. He could see Sam's hands moving within the pockets of his letter jacket, opening and closing beneath the red wool, working nervously at expelling tension there was no name for yet. There was uncertainty in blue eyes that Blaine didn't know what to make of. He slipped his bookmark in to keep his page for him and eased the novel aside, rising slowly to his own feet.

"I don't know what I'm doing here." The whispered words left Sam's lips in a hushed rush, and he took half a step backward as Blaine straightened. The air between them was made instantly tense and electric by that non-admission, and the guilty flush that climbed the McKinley jock's cheeks told Blaine in an instant that Sam _did _know what he had come for, knew exactly why he was standing here on Dalton marble flooring, looking Blaine and his own truth in the eye. What Sam probably didn't know was whether or not he had the stones to go through with the rugged execution of whatever terrifying fantasies he had been entertaining.

Blaine's pulse accelerated as comprehension trickled through him, warming his blood. He took a slow step forward, offering the boy a smile, and somewhere, a hundred feet of lined shelving away, Harriet was on the phone. She had clicked on the stereo, and classical music piped through the library at a low volume.

"Yes, you do." Blaine's murmured insistence was kind and accompanied by a knowing smile. That killing kindness caused tears to present themselves, making Sam's pale eyes shine, and that blond pressed the heels of large hands them into the sockets, trying to dam the flow. Blaine could see that he was tormented, that he was suffering, and though he had heard that Sam was kind to Kurt, as gay-friendly as any high school athlete can be without committing social suicide, he also knew that it was a different situation altogether when "gay" became infinitely more personal. The realization of one's own gayness was much more to swallow than the tolerance of someone else's; a naked twink under the next shower spigot was far more nerve-wracking when the curiosity was secretly mutual. "It's okay, Sam. Do you want to sit down?" Sam shook his head. Blaine leaned one hip against the sturdy tabletop's edge and folded his arms over his chest, giving him some time.

It became evident, as wordless seconds pressed on, that time wasn't going to do it; Sam did not have the capacity to formulate a confession, or speak a request and risk rejection. Blaine reached for his hand at last, a merciful and coercive smile on his own lips as he gave that boy a tug toward the far back reaches of the library, leaving his open book forgotten on the table. He drew Sam deep into the dark and musty rows of the reference section, past heavy volumes and encyclopedic documentation of humankind, the animal kingdom, space and beyond, many of those books outdated and easily older than the boys weaving past them.

Blaine's stride was certain, his few prior fumbling sexual encounters fueling his sense of expertise, and Sam's steps were stumbling but obedient as he followed, his fingers warm and damp from the tears he'd tried to force back in, still slightly calloused at their tips from the constant drag over textured pigskin during football season. The lights in the untouched recesses of Reference A-Z were not motion activated, so the shadow against the back wall engulfed them in a reassuring anonymity as they reached the ornate far wall.

Blaine drew Sam to his knees on the unforgiving cold of black marble, and Sam folded willingly enough. Heart racing, fingertips tingling with anticipation, he reached for the fastenings of Sam's jeans, managing to spring the button, and he heard the incredulous catch of the blond boy's breath over the rasping drag of the zipper. Though Sam was shaking, Blaine could feel relief rolling from him in waves, and in spite of his fear, Sam caught on quickly. A second pair of hands joined Blaine's in the war with their clothing, his own grey trousers leaving his hips and sagging in folds of fine fabric around his thighs. It was a hungry pursuit, a hurried and hushed baring of only what was absolutely necessary.

Sam's hiss carried well in the empty air down the rows when Blaine guided the bare curve of his backside to the stone flooring. He could see the fear in Sam's long-lashed eyes, though amid that trepidation was invitation, entreaty, a desperate need to do this thing and know, once and for all. Blaine wasn't going to disappoint. He pushed two of his fingers into his mouth and swept his tongue between them, over them, the rush of that wet muscle making his own nipples tight beneath the cover of his blazer. It wasn't careful or tender, the way he pressed the entirety of his middle digit into the dry clutch of Sam's body, but he caught the boy's groan with his own mouth, blanketing the virgin with himself to keep him still.

The dizzyingly aphrodisiac lack of rhythm in Sam's broken breathing while that sole finger fucked him caused Blaine's blood hurtle downward, every gasp against his lips making him throb, his lower belly aching with the shared urgency crackling between them. He buried his free hand in Sam's hair and tasted the velvet of the pretty boy's tongue, and though that effectively silenced him while Blaine scissored another finger in alongside the first, it couldn't do anything to keep Sam's hips from shifting, couldn't keep his large hands from fisting in Blaine's jacket. Blaine curled his toes inside of shiny shoes, aroused by the personal knowledge of what Sam was feeling now, remembering the bite of the stretch all too well, and even the graze of the cold floor along the underside of his shaft did nothing to cool the driving and fiery need to show Sam absolutely all that he had to offer.

Blaine added a little bit of spit to the end of the condom, gathering it from his tongue with the tips of his fingers and transferring it to his rubber-clad erection; the latex was lubricated, but didn't seem slick enough for the job. His eyes were hooded by the weight of his lids, and he glanced from the task at hand to meet Sam's gaze, wanting to reassure him. The other boy wasn't looking at Blaine, couldn't or wouldn't pull his eyes away from what Blaine was touching, his brow furrowed and his cheeks flushed, pillowy lips swollen from their kissing. His tee shirt had been shoved up a little in their haste, and Blaine stole just a moment to stare at the shapeshifting flex of well-defined abs beneath golden skin, the tense and release of Sam's belly as he drew ragged lungfuls of air. Unable to wait any longer, Blaine only watched for the duration of a handful of heartbeats, then reached out to grip Sam's naked hip and turned him over.

Two sets of legs tangled, one in denim and one in grey uniform, as Blaine guided himself to the beginning of Sam. Unable to kiss him with his front pressed to Sam's back, Blaine's empty hand found the heat and softness of the other boy's mouth, covering it to quiet him and keep their secret secret as he delivered an unyielding forward lift of strong hips and breached virginal resistance.

The remainder of the world faded from being. All of the color left the walls, the sound of piped Mozart died, the sensory awareness of cold floor and hard marble and musty books and darkness and gold-leaf tapestry ceased to register. Sam became the only thing Blaine's body knew, and as his lids fluttered and fell shut, he allowed his heavy head to loll forward, his forehead finding the woolen shoulder of Sam's McKinley jacket. Medals at Sam's breast jingled subtly, Blaine's thrusts short and fast, and he was only vaguely aware of Sam's hands at his thighs, fingertips fanned out, nails pressing into the olive warmth of his skin.

Sam was rendered breathless; Blaine could feel that he was winded, that occasional broken panting making condensation gather between his own fingers where they covered that deliciously broad mouth. Overwhelmed tears spilled from Sam's eyes to wet Blaine's knuckles across the back, and a whispered, "Are you all right?" was answered by a jerky nod.

Blaine was versed enough in real sex now to know that virgins didn't come, that porn was made of muscle relaxers, bad jazz and lies, so he took his orgasm guiltlessly when it overpowered him, holding Sam's dick with one hand and his mouth with the other, shuddering and filling the reservoir tip at the end of the rubber with his own heat.

Unselfish, he withdrew as soon as he was still, blinking blearily through the stinging sweat in his lashes to make sure no one was watching. Sam was reaching for him, shaking hands desperate to keep Blaine near, and Blaine caught those with his own, interlacing their fingers together and squeezing. He kissed Sam, little more than a brush of warm lips, then bowed his head with a dutiful reverence and repaid the favor with a practiced mouth.

The white-knuckled grip of strong hands as Sam trembled through his own release was rewarding, Blaine anchoring the tip of Sam at the back of his throat and swallowing what was sluicing free of it. He milked the last drop with puffy lips, then fell to the marble alongside Sam, letting go of his hands. When that boy clung to him, wet-cheeked and sticky, Blaine didn't push him away. There would be time for that, and Blaine needed to catch his breath. He held Sam against him, eyes closed, self-satisfied. The whispered admission came as no surprise, but the two words were nonetheless heavy, profoundly meaningful when Sam spoke them.

"I'm gay."

Blaine smiled.


End file.
